Confessions of an Opera Ghost: Part One, Roma Italia
by DarkLadyVorvick
Summary: A founding child from Rouen was born without a nose. He joins the Christmas pilgrimage to Vatican City. Lerouxian and sort of historically accurate. As of Feb 2019, i am re-formatting this whole thing. For right now I'm just going to leave this snippet here. I've never published anything here before and am having trouble learning my way around.
1. Chapter one: December 1841

"Take me away, carriage! Carry me off, frigate!

Far, far away! Here the mud is made with our tears!"

\-- Baudlaire, Moesta et Errabunda

The lad was weary and wore an expression that flashed between alert and near panic to dead and distant. Young Charles was himself feeling sick with the burden of the little one, and he prayed that there would be answers from friendly folk of the clergy, soon. He didn't like being in charge--after all, he was only fourteen years himself.

It would still be several hours before the hasty mail cart would deposit them in Paris. Charles had padded their space with some horse blankets to try and make the ride comfortable enough to sleep, but between the occasional spitting of rain, the rocking road and the wind, this would prove difficult.

The young initiate felt the already painful situation grow tedious: he knew so little of the child before him, only that Charles' godfather had made it very clear that he was to be delivered to clergy directly, and that his mother dismissed him in the most pathetic scene Charles had yet witnessed in his young life. It was unspeakably apparent that the foundling would never use his birth name again; either he or the hospital would have to come up with something suitable. "What are they going to call you at the Basilica?" Charles asked. After a time, when a stuttering silence answered him, he cleared his throat and asked, "what am I to call you?"

Charles had already noticed at that the child would only speak if pressed. It seemed odd that his godfather (in his wisdom) would send a curious and pitiful foundling specifically for inclusion in the music ministries and boy's choir, especially in the child rarely used his voice at all. He carried only one item on his person-- a worn black walnut violin case. He was bundled against the cold in scarves, but underneath he wore a clean linen mask against his face, large holes cut for eyes.

The child's gaze seemed far away and Charles watched the eyes beneath the tiny mask narrow to a glassy slit. The visible cherry-red lower lip quivered and fell open, "I want to be named for the first Sunday after Easter." The words were deliberate and rehearsed. Exhaustion and a guilty smidge of dread overtook Charles' lungs and eyes as the world became slow and heavy. He strained to remember any kind of significance about the Sunday following the feast of Easter, and while he did, studied the landscape out the cart that they huddled in. Easter felt as far away as ever, as the first candle of Advent was glowing in every front window, proving Rouen to be as devoted Catholics as candles and tallow would allow. He felt drowsy under the thick wool blankets and oiled canvas that were variously strapped down or nested around them. He had forgotten when he was trying to remember when the small one suddenly offered "Quasimodo Sunday."

Tallow candles on the roadside unblurred as Charles registered those unusual words, "Quasimodo?" Charles slowly shook his head, "that won't do, not even if you are made bell-ringer. Foundlings generally gain a name from the circumstances upon which they are.." Charles trailed off and stared openly at the child in shame. The child shuddered visibly--perhaps he was crying. It was hard to imagine finding a suitable name for any child buried within his short story. No doubt the mask he wore to conceal his nose and mouth was some part of it. The child tapped his mask now, noticing Charles' hesitance to declare the obvious.

"Quasi-modo," repeated the young initiate, with a patient resolve, "how is your Latin, brother Charles?"

"I know what it means," Charles responded, a little defensively, "but its not proper. Such words imply questions, insecurity. Its not a name for a modern child."

The blankets and tarps were heavy on the young man and the tiny child. The cart rattled through the evening slush, the town growing darker and smaller every minute. "If you were a girl, Noelle might do, seeing as how Christmas season has just opened."

"Noelle..." the child whispered, a bit enchanted by the apparent sound.

Charles huddled closer and took the child's tiny and frozen hands, "We reach Paris Cathedral in time for the holy Feast of St Nicolas. How do you like Nicolas?"

"Nicolas..." the child repeated, clearly less impressed.

It was the final word spoken on the journey.

They arrived in the frozen and bruised skies of a morning in Early December. Nicolas' red and tired eyes saw Paris for what he believed to be the first and last times in his life. Bundled in thick mufflers and scarves, he was scurried up the stairs and into the church offices. There would be time to solidify a little paperwork before Mass later that morning. Before submitting to his name for good, however, Nicolas gave one final attempt to convince those in authority to allow him the name of Quasimodo. When the priest looked incredulous, Nicolas moved forward and with very exact and careful motions, removed the muffler and mask from his face.

The moisture that had condensed beneath his garments was suddenly exposed to the cold, dry air, and the sudden sensation made Nicolas' face ache from the inside out. He winced as the minister drew closer to get a better look.

A disturbed muffle wove itself around the room. It was clear to absolutely everyone why this child believed he should be named after the famous deformed bell-ringer. At least one of the assistants looked away. Charles seemed more embarrassed than anything else. No one said a word. Finally, the minister shook his head a gave a deep sigh.

"Nicolas," the minister concluded, "you shall be seen to by the nurses. Perhaps there's something that can be done for you." The old man briefly addressed Charles concerning the ride from Paris to Lyon and then took the boy's papers that secured him not only as a foundling, but as part of the Christmas pilgrimage. The child saw the name written for him: Nicolas Pèlerin (or, 'Pilgrim') before Charles escorted him to the nurses.

When the nurses saw to Nicolas and his broken face, they were at turns horrified, confused and depressed. They made him tea and sent him to have a nap in a cot, but Nicolas remained awake, listening to the women gossip about his appearance.

"The poor child!"

"How did he survive?"

"Do you suppose it was an accident or sickness? Or birth defect?"

"From birth, mark me. The boy's nose never formed. Never had a chance."

"His face looks rather like a deaths head."

"Hush."

"Unsettling that's for certain."

He came to the conclusion that no single other person there --except Charles perhaps; he had referenced bellringing--had ever read Victor Hugo's Notre-Dame de Paris. All the clergy in the offices coming face to face with Nicolas' facial deformity would have understood. The sisters would realize that they sounded just like the old women in the book who spoke about Quasimodo, the hideous beast who walked the roofs of Paris at night with the cats. He breathed deeply and looked out the window--daylight was making her slow return to the sky, and the few winter birds were starting to fly. He was tired enough to sleep, but there seemed to be no point in it. He drowsily rose for mass and he wondered what it would be like to be Quasimodo on a cold night in Notre-Dame. He wondered what it would be like to find someone like himself hidden in a church.

He raised up his eyes through the cathedral windows as the Sunday hymns were sang. He felt himself be born right there: motherless, fatherless and wholly belonging to the Catholic Church. This was Notre-Dame de Paris, exactly how Mister Hugo had described it. In the precious day that was all he had to spend with the cathedral, he took himself on a tour of every staircase that he could access, searching for signs of his beloved friend, imagining the ghost of him swinging away on the outstretched gargoyle throats. The boy ate his lunch in the bell tower and imagined not eating alone. He kissed the holy stonework, whispered secrets into its crevices, and cooled his fevered cheeks on the tile.

As evening prayer concluded and before going to his cot for bed, he kissed the Holy Mother and bid her adieu. His day with the cathedral had come to an end and tomorrow was the journey to Lyon.

The next several weeks ahead would be a mighty sojourn from the very soles of their pious shoes to Rome and to the Vatican--present for the Pope's Christmas address. Nicolas was the littlest pilgrim of the motley group of faithful. A band of eight or so odd travelers headed by a Parisian Priest who had been to the glorious Christmas jubilee sixteen years earlier. The child looked at all the pilgrims and tried to remember their anonymous faces, but it quickly became impossible. He sat beside Charles in the wagon and ate up the outside world that he'd seen so little of up till that moment.

They reached Lyon in time to see the city's famous lights all come alive when the church bells rang for vespers. The child imagined that he had someone kind to remark upon the beauty of the sight, but he said nothing, the wrappings around his face protecting such sensitive features and delicate secret.

The boy felt an odd, yawning distance grow between himself and the rest of the outside world. Almost as though he witnessed what went on around him through a membrane. Everything felt very unreal. He stayed in line, went where told, and did not invite interaction. Impressive vistas and beautiful buildings filled every corner of his vision, no matter where it was directed. Dazzled by sights continuous, he found himself sitting at dinner one night and realized that he had already lost count of the days. Everything was very full to the brim with detail and importance. It would excite and exhaust by turns.

"Look at how lovely" a kind voice seemed to say.

But somehow noticing the beauty deepened his loneliness. The loneliness solidified into mourning. Yes, he was alone in the world. Nervous, he found a spot on the case that had been worn down with use and let his fingers creep into the spot, wondering at its peculiar smoothness. And wondering why he had taken it. Yes why hadn't he taken a book to read?

And a voice seemed to say, "that's all right there's too much to look at anyway." Which was true enough; the priest had said that the architecture would only get more and more beautiful as they got closer to Rome. Ill at ease, he cradled the rectangular box--like a tiny coffin--close, letting its harsh edges bite into his chest a little.

When he was sure he was quite alone he would open up the case and draw out the precious instrument inside. He tried to keep it tuned, but his pitch wasn't practiced and the whole thing became rather flat. Still sometimes he'd play.

And he would think, "it's a shame Quasimodo couldn't hear me play for him." And a voice seemed to say, "he would respect a fellow musician."

Yes indeed.

As the group crept ever closer to the Alps, humble carriages were traded for sturdy mules. Suddenly again the boy almost felt as if he had awoken. The air was thinner and the sunset burned the edges of clouds. Vespers bells pealed, but it had become the last night before the most difficult part of the journey--the mountain pass to Turin. At least for this part of the journey he would share a mule with Charles.

The mule team made slow progress, and the high desert seemed to roll on eternally. Once in the middle of the night, the child couldn't sleep and he crept away to the top of the closest peak he could reach on foot. As the breathless boy looked out he at once realized how very big the world was. He had barely left the camp but he could run to the edge of the horizon if he wished. He could keep running until he disappeared from anyone's knowledge, free in the void. It seemed pointless to do so, but the nearness of the possibility made him giddy. The wind whipped around his form in the little mountains and for the first time he wasn't cold. He shuddered a little but it wasn't the pain of cold that he was used to.

He closed his eyes and tried so hard to remember the globe he had seen before… how tiny France and Italy had seemed. He tried to recall how minuscule this pass had appeared in his fingertips, and then opened his eyes and looked around as best he could.

How could something so tiny ever represent something so huge? He imagined himself shrinking himself down so that the mountain pass on that globe was as big as the mountain pass he stood in. He tried over and over to visualize the sheer intensity of the earth.

The world was gigantic. And he was in it at last.


	2. Chapter Two

Every step closer to Rome brought them the potential to meet more pilgrims on the road. By the time they reached Turin, the cloud of faithful had quadrupled. Nicolas stopped trying to tell anyone apart, except Charles or the Priest from Paris.

But then the singing began. Softly at first: a group of friars that had joined them in the pass began singing carols in Italian. The Christmas songs had such a merry effect on the entire crowd that whole spots of song would bloom in little duets and trios. Not all the voices were beautiful or clear, but every one of them was happy and the happiness held such a power to charm.

"Nicolas, want to sing?"

Nicolas was confused. It seemed as though he had heard a voice.

"Nicolas?" It was Charles, "let's sing a carol." Charles didn't hesitate and started straightaway on _Une Flambeau Jeanette Isabella_.

Nicolas gasped at the unfamiliar physical sensations of sitting right in front of someone who was singing loudly. There was a tremendous race to his pulse suddenly and a sense of rightness and intimacy that threatened to close his throat. He gave a brief laugh before catching up at the chorus. Charles gave a slight guffaw when Nicolas joined in-he had extraordinary vocal power for one so small and his piercing tone was clear as a bell.

At the sound of this voice, which unmistakably belonged to a child, several of the pilgrims started or sat upright in their saddles. No one had really made any notice of the young people until that moment, and as such, the surprise of the sound was enough to bring tears to the eyes of many. There they rode, bound for the holiest of cities, traveling as once the Virgin did long ago, over mountaintop on the back of a donkey, under the stars. Such sentimentality didn't go unnoticed, especially when the voice of an innocent little child lead them. One by one, others joined in or added the verses that they knew.

All through the journey, melodies, harmonies and counterpoints passed through the little crowd, their voices cracking across the mountainside and echoing down the crevices. After a time Nicolas changed his pitch and softened his volume and played with being able and then unable to hear his own voice in the crowd. An odd feeling came over him as he lost his own voice to the sound of a motley choir. He could feel his pitiful face vibrating with music but his own voice had completely melted into the golden honey of belonging. His sinuses ached with the threat of tears, but the arid cold in the mountain dried them quickly.

Other small groups joined them in Turin and then again as they turned seaward. The descent from the dry cold mountains to the wet of the ocean threatened to wash them off the road, but the songs continued throughout. Nicolas spent these days in a sort of decadent dream where the music lead him to sleep at night and music brought him to life in the morning.

When they reached the ocean, the growing group waited in Genoa as rains rolled in. Nicolas took a little time to walk to the beach as he had never seen the ocean in person. He quickly found the scarves and mufflers more cumbersome than helpful as the weather slowly filled them with moisture. He made foot prints in the sand, drew a few lines with a stick and threw the stick as hard as he could into the oncoming surf. He watched the tide gradually bring it back to the shore. The few remaining wretched seabirds vacated the immediate beach, and the weather worsened. The rain came down in sheets and played the most amazing sounds with the rushing watertop. Nicolas tried to absolutely fill himself with this marvelous new sound. It was raining hard enough that it became difficult to breathe normally: he had to face the ground with his mouth hanging open or else put up his hands to shield his face. This he did as he strained to spot the horizon, lost in the myriad muddy cloud layers. The sky and the sea were all mixed shades of steel and silver, but Nicolas looked intently out into the ocean and tried so hard to imagine that the world continued on past everything he could see. He tried to imagine that incredible void of grey encircling all around him if he were in a ship, with no land in sight. He remembered that lovely globe and and imagined those oceans growing larger and overflowing into this heaving water before him. The waves before his feet and the crushing rain became one and for one instant Nicolas felt an unnerving bliss in this near oblivion. But the moment passed (they always do) and he set to return to the pilgrim's hospital. Upon seeing him, Charles was terribly frustrated at how wet his charge had gotten. The insides of the buildings were already steaming with the warmth of so many travelers, and there weren't really any ways for them to get his things dry. Charles and Nicolas sat near the fire and did their best, but for days the boy stayed inside the hospital to keep dry and out of sight.

The night before they expected to arrive in Rome, anxiety of all the exciting plans made sleep near impossible. While they were laying in their cots in the dark, Nicolas peppered young Charles with questions. He wanted to know about the children's hospital, the choirs, Rome herself, anything to try and make plans.

"This will be my first time to The Vatican," Charles admitted. "I am going to be enrolled at boarding school and studying to be a priest. I don't know where you shall be, really. I know that they house the pilgrims for a few days in a special dormitory And I know there's a good hospital that you'll likely live at. You'll have school there."

An unreadable silence froze the conversation, and then: "Charles, are you an orphan?"

"No."

"Then why do you have to move away from home to go to school?"

Charles took in a deep breath and sighed, "well, that's what my brother did. Father says its what young men do-go into the world and learn on their own."

"Will you go home when you're done in school?"

Charles' heart sank, "I don't know. A lot of things can happen." He breathed very quietly, dreading further words from the abandoned child. What on earth could Charles say about his own paltry suffering? If Charles wished to go home for holiday in a few months he probably could. It would be tricky, but certainly it would deaden the homesickness that -while not immediate-threatened his own future happiness in Rome. But Nicolas, the little boy, could never go back to Rouen... his home was Rome now. Now and likely forever.

"I hope you stay in Rome," said the orphan, absentmindedly.

Charles turned on his cot to look at Nicolas' outline, "I'll be in Rome for a good long time, one way or another."

Nicolas turned tentatively to face Charles, even though it was dark, "a long time?"

"Several years at least," Charles nodded even though the other boy probably couldn't see it, "I'm to attend the Roman Pontifical College when I'm old enough."

"Maybe I will go too," the orphan's voice quickly chirped.

A new sinking overcame Charles. He had seen and heard what Nicolas could not-the looks and sneers of the adults accompanying who had been steadily accompanying them. Except when singing, Nicolas was so quiet and unresponsive that most people took him to be a simpleton at first glance. The mask merely seemed to confirm the onlooker's prejudices, and it didn't take long for the whole party to dismiss his very presence. It was very unlikely that a boy such as Nicolas would really ever be allowed to leave the hospital, much less be admitted to a seminary. "You best be serious about your studies then. Can you read yet?"

"Oh yes I love reading."

"That's always a good place to begin," the youth concluded.

After a short silence, and without warning, the orphan began to cry. The boys did not speak of it, each kept to their own awkward cot, face buried in a pillow or under an arm. Nicolas did everything he could to stop crying and when he ran out of energy to continue that he merely wailed into his own sleeve. His cries felt relentless, ceaseless. He expelled so much tragic sound that at times there was no room for breath. Both boys remained awake until the periwinkle grey of morning crept into the windowsill. But they were in likely company; most of the pilgrims were too restless to get much sleep. After all, Rome awaited.

As they prepared to leave, the rain grew heavy and sticky; a warm front had come in from the sea. The final day on the road would be a rough one and Nicolas had had enough of all the extra cloth all around his face. He decided that he would only wear the most necessary of face coverings: the canvas mask. By the time the boys departed, their group had grown to be a crowd of several hundred. It was too difficult to count all the strangers, they all were simultaneously individual and forgettable. The minutiae and detail that went up into making every single person was just too overwhelming, and they rendered all the human-being shaped beings _interchangeable_.

All of them of course, except for Charles (days ago, Nicolas had lost track of the Parisian Priest in his common black Cossack). Charles was never long out of his sight. They had been riding the same donkey, secured onto a singular saddle. But the muddy road was troublesome and Charles was more interested in leading the donkey that day. He tried to be generous by offering his seat up for someone who was on foot: a different child or perhaps a small woman. But no one would sit behind the masked boy, nor in front of him. After a time Charles stopped asking. He regarded Nicolas on the donkey: the child resembled an unnerving doll or lifelike puppet with his canvas mask but on the other hand, he looked like a leper without it. It had never dawned on him that someone might think Nicolas was a leper, but now that his mask was more visible, folks were giving them a little more space on the road. He hoped to rest easy as there was only one day left to navigate through the weary crowd.

 _"Une Flambeau Jeanette -"_

All eyes turned toward Nicolas and he felt suddenly alone. There had been no singing yet that morning and he was eager to begin. But on this wet day, his voice was met with such a cold reception that it ceased in midair, the calling forth of Jeanette to bring a torch rang like a shriek. The unwelcome sound hung heavy in the ears of the assembled as they broke eye contact or rolled their shoulders, urging any beasts they might have away from the boy. All at once Nicolas felt very cold and tired and small. Shuddering, he leaned down into the donkey's neck. He closed his eyes and slipped away into something like sleep, clinging to the donkey's mane. He dozed in and out of distressed thoughts, fear and loneliness, and when he felt panic creep in he remembered his breathing exercises.

And the breathing exercises soon became a small rhythm in his head. Rhythm flowed into song: _Une Flambeau Jeanette, deux Flambeau Jeanette, trois Flambeau Jeanette..._ Thus he called to Jeanette, and entreated this make-believe girl to come hurrying. Responding in sleep-like memory, she flickered, bringing her torch. Red hair, she had red hair today and a round face, lit by the glittering flame she bore. She was running toward him, the pounding rain never touching her completely non-existent form.

His imaginary sister. She would always come.  
 _Always always, little one,_ a voice seemed to say.

He felt something heavy descend upon him as he remembered how he must never depend on any person. He had no use to other humans; he was unwanted by the world... yes! He did not belong to the world, he was God's creature. Wasn't that what the choirmaster in Rouen had said? No! God's _instrument_. There was a sad certainty to the realization, and it seemed to pacify and coat his emotions like medicine. A strange smile grew on his face as he said to himself this tragic thought: "this is good. This is right. This will make me strong."

Happily, music did make an appearance later on in the day. Nicolas focused on the sound when he heard it and briefly raised his head from the donkey's neck. On the far side of the parade, liturgy of the hours was called and prayers for the third hour were sung-it was nine o'clock in the morning. The men's plainchant flowed in like a slow mist through the crowd- _nunc sancte nobis spiritus..._

Thank God there was music.  
Thank God there was mind.


	3. Chapter Three

Author's forward: October 28th 2017. so... I'm going to do NaNoWriMo this year! I'm going to use it to try blasting through my rough draft of Confessions of an Opera Ghost.

I got stuck as hell on chapter 3 because I have to do a little research before the next bit... I don't actually know much at present about the founding hospitals in Vatican City.

One way or another, look for my postings to begin again (in earnest! Since I'll be writing from a draft) probably in the new year.

Sext, None, then Vespers. The crowd grew to resemble a wall of human and animal flesh as everything slowed to a crawl. Charles mentioned something about getting near Rome.

Nicolas didn't say it, but he felt as though they had spent far too much time getting close to a place without getting there. There was one of those math puzzles about that wasn't there? Perpetually halfway to a point but never quite reaching the destination for all eternity.

In their travels they had seen some glorious monuments and churches, but the old priest had been right that the sights would become ever more remarkable as they neared the Vatican. The roads were littered with ancient history as soon as modern carpentry. Every age of opulence was represented and if you weren't careful of yourself whole decades of stone work and marble would pass by.

Nicolas noticed his heart beat harder when the lamps of evening were lit and the spires and sculptures were illumined from underneath, the tops of building lost in the winter darkness. They kissed the threshold at the gates of Rome and soon, the horses were unloaded and traded out. Nicolas carried his own satchel and violin case into the pilgrim's dormatory, right on the heels of young Charles. A friar asked for their papers and Charles took a note out of his valise he was carrying on Nicolas' behalf. Money was exchanged and the boys were led into a room with chairs. They sat with the other men and boys as friars and initiates entered with wash basins. And every pilgrim removed their shoes for a foot washing. The old man who washed Nicolas' feet never raised his head from his work: such was the humble act of foot washing to be observed. Nicolas' feet were blessedly identical to the feet of other children his age, and he said a silent prayer as soap and warm water soothed him. Someone was touching Nicholas, and had no idea he was ugly. The depressing thrill of anonymity brought tears to his eyes but he was silent for fear that the man would look up and then the spell would be broken.

Supper was performed in a great hall with cardinals and noblemen as well as the freshly-washed pilgrims. Whispers flew that the Pope himself had been known to attend but there was no sign of his Emminence.

Supper ended, and its baskets of fragments for the morning's breakfast put by, the long file of pilgrims proceeded upstairs to bed. The friars and priests in attendance started singing one of the short, common religious strains and every Italian-speaking Faithful joined it. The effect was a sort of simultaneous, yet successive, chorus winding along, stunning to the ears at the spot where Nicholas stood, alternately swelling and fading away, as it came from one or other side of the stairs, then dying away in the deep recesses of the dormitory above, yet seeming to be born again and grow at the beginning of the line, still unemerged from the supper-hall.

And a voice seemed to say, "Welcome home, Nicholas" and he was warm with the feeling. Dancing eyes and red hair lingered near his periphery as he imagined a strong hug from an older sister. Nicholas grabbed a fistful of his tunic and pulled hard around his middle. _I'm here._

 _I'm here._


	4. Chapter 4 (beta?)

The choir director had never liked Nicolas, he was certain of it. When the child had first been introduced to him as a new singer, he was aghast and offended that anyone would place a child he had never heard in his choir, gifted foundling or not. When the ward left Nicolas with the letters of placement in the music room, the choir director sniffed and turned aside, saying only, "There's no place in the choir for anyone younger than 10 years."

"I'm 10 years old," Nicolas fibbed with a stoic authority.

The director turned around incredulously to look at the boy and said, "you're awfully scrawny for ten." The choir boys erupted in the gleeful laughter that can only happen when the grownup is upset with someone that isn't you. Nicolas held rigid as the director looked through a thick pair of spectacles and squinted, "In the name of St Peter, what is that on your face?"

Nicolas reflexively grasped his mask with both hands. The children laughed again.

"No masks in the house of God. Off with it."

Nicolas pondered his situation carefully. He considered leaving the room, but he thought of the great cartagra and how enchanting the voices of the men and boys had sounded on at the Christmas Mass and he planted himself.

I am God's instrument

He dutifully removed his mask for the director with one hand while presenting his letters with the other. The ensemble lost no time in their shrieks and jeers when they caught sight of his noseless face, deep set eyes and cracked mouth. Nicolas remembered the good cold feeling of strength and breathed deeply.

He could not cry. He had not yet sung.

The director was immediately downcast and he snapped at the choir to bring them to attention. Once they settled the director came very close to Nicolas and told him to raise his chin.

Nicholas was familiar with the examination routine. He raised his face to the light, closed his eyes and parted his teeth the smallest bit. Once again the boys made a noise in unison, but this time it was the eerie sound of awe. This was a trick Nicolas had known for a long time: at just the right angle he could show the lamplight through his mouth. It was clearly having the desired effect. He waited as the director examined his cleft palate and absurd nose hole.

"You can sing lad?" The director sounded amazed, which was an improvement from angry.

Nicolas took a deep breath and nodded and whispered the words he was told by the old cantor in Rouen to say, "like no one else."

The cantor been right about those words. The curiosity of the choir director was clearly piqued, and instead of moving on in the lesson, slid onto the piano bench to watch the child closely as he sang scales.

Nicolas knew what to do.

When the audition ended the hall was impossibly silent. Nicolas' face was a little red from effort, but he had made sure the clear beams of his voice were strong enough to fill the great hall alone. With his mask still in hand, he went and stood in the very back, next to the older boys, well out of sight to anyone. He never looked another one of those boys in the face. He closed his eyes and thought about Jeanette who said she was so proud of him.

Nicolas had avoided speaking directly to the choir master after that, and spent his energy dodging the pranks and jabs of the other boys instead. They never seemed to know what to make of him and on top of that, they spoke mostly in a language that he was still learning. He never bothered with their names, and instead he and Jeanette would make up names for them based on how they related to Nicolas himself. One was "The oldest singer", one was "the best singer next to me" one was "the second soprano who's always a little shrill" et cetera. He was faceless. And likewise they were faceless to him.


	5. Chapter 5 (beta?)

Nicolas was frequently trying to engineer better masks, fitting them into the roof of his mouth or nasal hollow. Charles said to him, "don't do it it'll keep you from talking. Nicolas shrugged and asked gloomily, "why should I talk? There's no one who listens to me except the choir master, and I can't wear a mask while singing.

Charles grimaced slightly, and said "I don't think anyone realizes how smart you are."

"I rather think they don't like me at the hospital"

"What makes you say that?"

"The nurses will talk about me like I'm not listening. I yelled at them to stop but it only made them upset."

Charles chuckled despite himself, "yes that will certainly anger the nurses. They see the mask and assume you don't have all your faculties. Yelling will only make it worse."

Nicolas huffed in frustration, "but why should a mask lead one to that conclusion, Charles? What about a mask tells someone anything about intelligence?"

At this, the initiate looked up from his studies and agreed aloud, "that's a good question." He turned to face Nicolas and all at once saw a face he had seen before in puppet shows and pantomimes: the buffoon. "I think I see" Charles rose from the stool and kneeled before the little boy. He put out his hands, "may I borrow your mask?"

Nicolas was familiar with this routine. He took in a breath and stood a little more rigid as he removed his mask and handed it to Charles. He stretched his face a little: the rush of air almost stung his face. But when he looked back at Charles, to his amazement, the young man had put the mask on * _himself_ *. Nicolas had never seen anyone do this before his mouth fell open in surprise.

Charles laughed again and absent-mindedly chucked Nicolas on the chin saying, "Don't leave your mouth open, flies might get in."

Nicolas blinked hard and squeezed his mouth shut.

"It's something my mother says," Charles admitted, "but keeping a closed mouth will indeed make you appear smarter," and the he opened his mouth, just a little.

Suddenly Nicolas saw a new person in front of him. Charles was no longer visible somehow: the mask dulled all signs of life or thinking from his eyes and the dropped jaw finished the illusion. In a terrifying moment, the person kneeling before Nicolas morphed from the familiar form of Charles into some faceless, mindless entity staring up at him. He shrieked and took the mask off of in a hurry to reveal Charles' surprised visage.

Charles blinked and asked, "What did you see?"

Nicolas slowly shook his head and looked at the mask back in his hands. He touched his face the contours and crevices that had given him such trouble in his short life. How did this stupid bit of linen and plaster have such an effect on how others perceived him? Nicolas was too frustrated for words and he grasped his mask tightly and started to cry.

Charles deflated a little, as he had hoped to cheer the child. Feeling a tad useless, he guided Nicolas' hands to return the mask to their owner's howling face. Nicolas awakened and seemed to take the cue, quickly affixing the mask back to his own head, but he was clearly dejected, and his form crumbled. Charles kept his hands on the boy's and slowly ventured, "do you know why it's so good that you, my friend, are in Rome?"

The question appeared to confound Nicolas, who was so lost in his own rampaging thoughts that he may as well have forgotten what city he was in. He focused on his breathing and looked back at Charles, who rose from his knee and pointed up over Nicolas' shoulder with a weak smile. Nicolas whirled around to see one of the plentiful marble faces that littered the Vatican and the associated buildings. Nicolas peered up at the face, a bellowing ferocity with thick clouded brows of power, lips curled back in a powerful but somehow unheard cry of rage. The eyes and mouth of the face were empty and for the very first time Nicolas realized that these exaggerated faces were indeed masks. He looked at the bellower and then at the face beside him, a wailing face poised in perfect misery. Other sculptures of antiquated theatre masks dotted the upper wall: empty or blank eyes stared out of sinister-shaped holes. Thoughts and feelings were made tactile through the contortion of stone.

"I can make myself a face" Nicolas heard himself mutter and wondered why he'd never considered making his own mask. Nicolas wondered if he could build something that could theatrically project an idea of himself out into the world, like some kind of sign he could bear that would somehow say "please look at me". All at once his crying ceased, the energy of his unbridled intellect sweeping away his imagination in a couple of breaths. He looked around a little bewildered and said to Charles, "thank you. I will search all of the cathedrals until I find a face," and then he walked away with purpose, leaving Charles in a vague state of concerned bewilderment.

Jeanette grabbed Nicolas' hand and said, "I know where to look, come," and off Nicolas sprinted as though he suddenly heard something.

Charles did not see little Nicolas again for several days. This did not concern him in particular, as there wasn't a whole lot of opportunity for a young initiate, thick in study, to go to the Foundling hospital. Nicolas--it seemed--disappeared for entire stretches of days, only to emerge from the hospital later with a fully-formed plan on how to build some kind of invention or fresh hymns, and once even a reflection on Christ's humility. The little one kept himself very busy: the few workers at the hospital who knew he wasn't a simpleton gave him tasks and chores to make him useful. One could see how eager to please the lad was by the way that he would try to catch your eye--almost like a dog attentively seated by its master. He was persistent with his duties, and dedicated to his plans, which he also appeared to make in isolation. So Charles was only a little surprised when (in the middle of Latin study) Nicolas appeared again before him in a new mask, painstakingly created to look as lifelike as one may expect for a child. The effect wasn't the one that Charles thought the boy was looking for: it was as serene and as expressionless as a cherub. While the shape and structure of the new mask was an improvement, the smooth features that dominated from forehead to upper lip were a new kind of unsettling and gave the child an air of a spirit or a demon. Even so, this revision made great headway.

"This is much better," Charles said. He gave the kid a smile and returned to his studies.

Nicolas didn't seem to quite interact with most of the other choir boys well and the mask put them out of sorts. Over the months and then years, Nicholas grew to resent them, although none of the other boys had managed to get the mask off of Nicolas' face due to his quickness and an eerie ability to disappear. Nicolas found it impossible to remember all their names, but no one ever spoke to him so it didn't matter.

When Nicolas would spend time with humans, they were elderly and authoritative. There were hospital nurses and the occasional priest, not to mention the choir master, who always made sure that Nicolas was unseen and in the back. So he spent most of his time alone. And it ate up at him to be so alone amongst so many people. Sometimes he would visit Charles, but Charles was in another building altogether, across the river from the Vatican. It was rare to see him except on Sundays at Mass, and Charles was not in the choir.

Mostly, Nicolas would grab his sister's hand and rush to the libraries. The sight of him caused a bit of a stir at first, but eventually even the staff ignored him. Sometimes he was so well hidden that they locked him away inside at night, unnoticed. The first time this happened, he had been in the middle of reading and when he realized he was totally alone, was quite spooked. He called around the building and wondered if he would be in trouble. But as the echoes bounced off the walls, an odd but familiar feeling came over him. Trapped by himself in a library, he put his hands on his hips and say, "well come on then Jeanette," and they raced like giggling terrors through the shelves and halls. It didn't take Nicolas long to realize how unnoticed he was in the library and that no one seemed to miss him at the hospital if he showed up for breakfast in the morning. These night time romps became a regular routine for him and his imaginary friend: they climbed the statuary and again pretended they were friends with Quasimodo; they read books and manuscripts until dawn. Lost in a world of ancient texts, histories and myths, Nicolas failed to notice the whispers of revolution around him.

The grown ups did not fail to notice. By 1843, the papacy was very concerned about populist uprisings and there was a great stir to unify the papal states with Tuscany, Sardinia and a whole southern peninsula of rebellious Carboneria, the so-called "charcoal makers" who embraced the ideals of the republic. This unification had its own romantic title, Risorgimento: the resurgence. It was a dream of a unified Italy, under a secular government. And the "secular" part was very important, and disconcerting to the ruling cardinals and bishops of the Papal States, who were all quite powerful and very rich. Several uprisings had been suppressed already, and though the movement was slow, it was gaining noticeable traction.

Meanwhile Nicolas tried new mask designs with inclined eyebrows and pursed lips. He played with mannerisms and voice quality when he spoke in greater attempt to communicate and it appeared to work. He even convinced the organist to let him try the great keyboard a few times and impressed the man very much. He asked Nicolas where he learned to play.

Nicolas had no answer for him, just a fuzzy and sad dissociation as he followed his hands in muscle memory.

He had been told to forget. And it seemed that he had obeyed.


	6. Chapter 6? (Very beta?)

It had never set well with Nicolas that Charles—the boy who initiated the French carols on the highland road all that time ago —wasn't in any of the liturgical music studies. At first, there was an incredible lack of time: Charles was fast learning a new language and new lifestyle. But one day the smaller boy asked why his friend didn't at least sing in the choir.

In response, Charles burst with a squeaky laugh, "I'll be praying the hours with the other clergy soon enough. But I am in no place to be singing for his Eminence."

"But why?"

"Can you hear my voice right now, Nicolas? It's breaking."

Nicolas sat still in a kind of horror, and leaned in concernedly, "I thought you were sick." When Charles kindly shook his head in response, the child was quick to respond, "how did you break your voice?"

Charles stared out and put down his pen. He wondered if there was anyone at the hospital who was in charge of foundling education. And then he realized that he had never learned these things in school… they were secrets passed around from boy to boy. Occasionally an older brother would share his post-pubescent wisdom, but little Nicolas had none of these. Charles saw that he was in a position that no one had prepared him for. He pressed his fingertips together in a way he had seen the older scholars do when they were deep in thought--it made him feel a little smarter. "Have you never wondered why or how it is that adult men sound very different from little boys?" Nicolas didn't respond at all and Charles continued, "as children grow into adulthood their voices change. I used to sound just like you….'

"Not just like me. No one sounds like me," Nicolas interrupted hurriedly.

Charles was taken aback, but then nodded, "fair. I sounded like one of the other boys in your choir perhaps. And right now I sound like this:" and the young teen sat upright, took in a medium sized breath and started his scales on a nice round "DO" but by the time he got to "SO" the quality in the note had gone thin. Charles concentrated and brought the dominant into something that eventually sounded full. But then he went to "LA" and two notes burst forth from his throat simultaneously, in a strange reedy overtone. Charles saw that Nicolas was very concerned and interested, so he held the note as the child crept closer.

He was trembling.

Charles squeaked "TI" and he steadied himself for "DO" when a small hand closed his mouth. Charles looked at the owner of the shaking hand.

Nicolas shook his head slowly.

"Well, now you've heard it. Its best you know now so that it doesn't take you by complete surprise when it happens to you."

Nicolas jumped back as though the words hit him, "It's not going to happen to me" he muttered desperately and walked quickly away again, doubtless back to the library or to one of the nurses.

From that point onward, Nicolas dogged every note of the older boys, listening for evidence of this split flute, this abomination of voice. Sure enough, a fourteen year old was disqualified from soloing just a little while later. And not long after that, another was bumped from first soprano to second soprano. Each of these boys showed some frustration but were clearly resigned to their fate.

Nicolas was very upset but kept silent. It was as though a mysterious illness had overcome the entire boys choir and they would each eventually succumb to it. No one spoke of this illness and everyone acted like it wasn't happening. And the worst part was that Nicolas did not know how old he was. He didn't know if he'd start showing signs in the next year or in the five years. After several weeks of this anxious suffering, Nicolas worked up the courage to speak to the choir director about it.

After the oldest singer was dismissed from the boys choir altogether for having a wild gallop through octaves emerging from the holes in his head, Nicolas drummed up the fortitude to speak to the choir director personally for the first time since his arrival. After rehearsal and lessons, he made his way to the front of the room asd asked the director what was happening to the older boy's voices.

The choir director looked down at Nicolas and shook his head, "its inevitable," he said "just as the voice starts to grow really strong the range drops out and everyone is suddenly a basso. But don't worry you've got a few years yet." He looked back at his papers and absent-mindedly walked away saying, "just keep practicing. That can smooth out the transition."

Dissatisfied with that answer, he next tracked down a young tenor in the men's choir and asked about this wretched curse. The man looked very gravely at the boy, taking in the concerned brow sculpted into the boy's half mask. "It happened when I was fifteen," he said, "I felt so betrayed. Before then I had understanding with my voice and an identity with it." He leaned in conspiratorially, "before, I had over a three octave range. I miss it, quite frankly."

"Please Brother," the child hesitated, "is there anything that could be done to stop it?"

The man got a funny look on his face and said, "Yes --but only because you sing in the papal chorus," and he told Nicolas where to find the chapel Musici--the castrated members of the pontifical choir.

Some of the Musici had left the loft by the time Nicolas got up the stairs to hear them sing in isolation. But once they opened their mouths he was transfixed: grown men with the voice of angels. Neither woman nor child nor man could make the sound that these creatures held as their voices rang out above from the lofts in the Sistine. It was a good strong vocal line in a chorus full of other men and boys, but alone, the sound was uncanny, chilling and unlike anything Nicolas had ever heard. Ringing sounds of unparalleled clarity, volume and breath control that went beyond the reaches that Nicolas thought possible.

Wary of greeting such esteemed individuals, Nicolas employed his quiet footsteps to follow them, listen to their chatter and make plans on approach. He learned that the director of the pontifical chapel choir was still riding his case about Palestrina, about whom he'd previously written a book. He learned that several of the Musici were quite getting on in years but there were a few younger specimens. He saw that they had similarities between them that weren't apparent right away. All of them were exceptionally tall with long limbs, wrists darting out exaggeratedly from the cuff. Each of them was positively cherubic in shape otherwise. Among them was a stout fellow with hair paradoxically a black blonde. The called him Dominico. As the various choristers took their leave of the loft, Dominico was left behind.

"Hello, there," a sweet voice cooed as he spotted Nicolas lurking in shadows. "Are you lost, son?"

Nicolas opened his mouth and in his imperfect Italian, blurted out, "I was told to find the Musici."

The cherub smiled softly and said, "you found one. Who's looking for us?"

Nicolas slowly walked closer, fastidiously aware of the presence of his mask. "Nicolas Perelin from the boys choir."

"Perelin. You're not from around here, I see."

Nicolas shook his head slowly. The musici beckoned him over to him, closer to the lamps. "Do you have an injury?" he puzzled as the boys mask indeed came into view.

Nicolas shook his head again and at a loss to remember a word in Italian said, "my face was never made."

"Show me."

The child went through the old routine and exposed his gaping sinus cavity to the lamplight.

"What can I do for you, Nicoli Pellegrino of the boys choir?" said the soft man in an illustrious manner. He flourished his fingers through the air to dismiss the child's mask.

Nicolas was caught off guard. It was clear that the musici was addressing him, but he'd never heard his name sound like that before. He held his mask hesitantly, not sure if he was expected to leave it off or replace it. At last, he dropped his hands and said, "I would be honored to sing for you and to be considered for this destiny."

"Is that so?" Dominico raised his eyebrows, "do your parents know?"

"I do not have parents. I am from the hospital of foundlings."

"An orphan?"

"Yes, Signore."

"And you want to devote your whole life to liturgical music? You wish to craft your body into God's instrument?"

"Yes, Signore."

"Do you know the sacrifices required of this position?"

Nicolas struggled with some of the words that Signore Dominico used but he was pretty certain he understood the question. With considerable limited vocabulary, he formed an answer and said, "I know I must never grow up to become a man."

"Mind your tongue, young fellow," came a low rumble as the giant leaned down, brows furrowed in displeasure. "What in heaven's name do you think we are?"

Nicolas panicked when he angered the angelic creature. Not knowing what else to do and afraid he was quickly losing his chance, he began to sing. It wasn't his strongest performance, (his nerves were shot) but the grownup was clearly impressed.

When he'd heard enough he waved his hand again, saying "Very well, very well. Listen, you've got a fine voice but… that's not all there is. You may already be too old. Did you say you were in the boys choir?"

"Yes, Signore."

"Then you must be at least 10 years old. The procedure should take place at the age of eight or younger."

Nicolas gasped and said "I'm younger than eight!"

The musici grew quiet and gave a long sigh, "Nicoli, I see that you're very interested in this life but, the procedure is very serious and the pontifical choirs have standards. There's no telling that you'll be accepted to sing here, even if you continue to train under Signore Belari. I've never seen anyone with a face like yours."

Feeling faint, the boy's strength gave out. He fell to his knees before Dominico, and said, "this is how God made me. Where can I go? If I lose my voice I shall have to take a trade and no one will accept me. I must sing. It is all I am."

After a long, unreadable pause, Signore Dominico said, "How old are you really?"

"I don't know, Signore. I'm an orphan."

"Pity. Stand up, let me have a look at you."

Nicolas again assumed a display pose as the adult prodded his face and neck, looking for something he didn't name. "Are you growing any body hair?"

Nicholas did not understand. As the Signore explained to him what he meant, a cold feeling overcame him. Never had the awareness of monstrousness in his body extended to anywhere below his chin. The things the liturgist listed as symptoms of this unfathomable --and permanent --disease made him nauseated. The hair, the smell, the emissione notturna and the goblin voice combined with his already putrid face was too much to bear. Tears sprang to his eyes as he shook his head to both deny the existence of these body horrors and the dispel their images.

"Well there may still be time, then." Dominico said as he pointed to an office door. "That is the director of pontifical music. Go ask him for Caffarelli's lesson plan and let him know your intentions. But be discreet in your words. What happens in cases such as mine or potentially yours is regarded quite secretive."

The director of music at the Sistine chapel was elderly; the position was usually held for life. He looked at Nicolas and didn't appear to notice the mask at all, but handed him a booklet from the shelf. The lesson plan of the great Castrato Caffarelli. "Return when you're certain."

Nicolas clutched this new treasure tightly to him as he raced back to the foundling hospital. Of course the booklet was written in the Italian language, and Nicolas employed a dictionary and the occasional help of one of the orderlies at the hospital.

It was about time he learned Italian properly. And with that decision he finally began to attend the paltry language lessons delivered by the nurses after Catechism. Suddenly the masked boy was speaking, and speaking very beautifully. He excelled at studies and impressed the people in charge.

As the language came to him through listening and careful study, he pulled apart each and every phrase in the booklet until there was one instruction left that gave him trouble. Caffarelli's lesson plan was intense and compiled hours of practice of different sorts: difficult passages, performance, theory and counterpoint.

But one morning lesson gave Nicolas serious trouble. In the mornings, each boy was to perform "one hour of singing exercises in front of a mirror, to practice gesture and forms and to avoid ugly expressions of the face while singing, and so on."

Avoid ugly expressions of the face.

The orderlies did have a shaving mirror at the hospital, and Nicolas tried the exercise with the mask on and with the mask off until he despaired.

Meanwhile, as the weeks went on, he worked. He stole off to the music rooms to practice on any keyboard available from pump organ to grand piano.

He was the most attentive singer in the boy choir and all hated him for it. Nicolas grew to detest them in response and felt an odd, new, sort of glee when the tell-tale signs of this dreaded man disease began to appear on any of them. He imagined the boys as being filled to bursting with all this bloody potential until one day their vocal chords popped like boils, releasing these hideous noises into the air.

And he crafted better masks made of more subtle materials and shaded as much as possible to resemble his own pale flesh. He finally settled on a design that drew an intelligence with it the way Charles had tried to suggest. Slight upturn of one upper lip, a raised and cocked eyebrow but smaller eyeholes, suggesting lowed lids. The effect was one of a cocky boredom. It was absolutely everything Nicolas felt.

Caffarelli spelled out disciplines very clearly and referenced several other primers that Nicolas was obliged to look up. He learned more of the process of becoming a musici, and how difficult it may be to find a clandestine surgeon. He learned that after being castrated, these beings weren't properly considered full men anymore, and several rights were supposedly removed, specifically the offices of marriage and priesthood. But in his research he also learned things about the lives of historical Castrati that he suspected the director of holy music had not intended him to learn. In the old days, when castrati voices were very popular, they reigned over most of Europe (and even parts of the east, where the Orthodox Church held sway). The performers were wealthy and beloved and had nothing to do all day but sing, play and make love. They were pompous and vain creatures, frankly not suited for the papal states at all, much less the Pope's own chapel. The findings brought Nicolas at long last to the story of Farinelli… the world's greatest singer. Descriptions of the feats of music Farinelli was able to make were astounding. In one article he went toe-to-toe with a famous trumpeter and outlasted him in public. There were references to passages written for him that looked quite impossible. His range was legendary: three and a half octaves from the middle of the keyboard to an astounding F note in the 6th octave. Nicolas played it over and over. It was a whistle, a birds' song. It didn't even seem like a note that could come out of anything human. Farinelli must have been touched by God.

Nicolas intended to hide his findings from Charles, remembering the secrecy in which Signore Dominico had spoken. But he went to go show his friend the new mask and it wasn't long before he started discussing his ambitions.

Charles was shocked. He held up his hands to quiet Nicolas' excitement and said, "Nicolas are you quite serious? Do you know what this means?"

"It means I won't become a man."

"Nicolas, you could die from this unnecessary procedure."

"I have gone under the knife for the sake of my face already. I don't see the difference. Besides, it's a simple thing, really. We geld horses and cattle all the time."

"But, horses and cattle? You're not a beast, Nico."

Nico.

Nicolas looked up at his friend, his heart aflutter and cried. Crying felt wrong, but he was unable to stop the flow of tears.

After a few weeks of gruelling practice, Nicolas returned to the director of music and made his case. The director asked many of the same questions that Dominico did and Nicolas explained his situation of being a foundling and having a deformity (though remembering the man's eyesight from earlier, did not remove his mask to show him).

The director looked aside and said, "you are ward of the Church, and unusually in a position to accept this sacrifice. I will send for you when I know if this can be done, provided that you understand the risks you're taking on the whole. Do you?" the old man asked doubtfully.

"Because of my deformity, I have already sustained several surgeries. Procedures of medical violence are familiar to me." Nicolas fibbed. In truth he had no memory of anything that had been done to his face, but layers of stitch marks were visibly hashed over a vestigial upper lip. And he knew doctors. Maybe he had forgotten everything that had ever happened outside a church or hospital, but those images lingered. He was worried about having to answer to this same point again, "I'm no stranger to blood, Signore."

Nicolas was dismissed and told to consider it for longer. But one day Nicolas found one single hair on his belly that was darker than any hair not on his head. Remembering the symptoms in grim horror, he raced to make appointment with the director of music and begged him to assist in finding a barber or surgeon to make the cut.

"Just so, just so," waved the director "Nicolas Pelerin, wait for my call. I will send for you at the hospital."

It was actually Dominico who came for him that fateful day. The musici was of a much more amiable mood then when Nicolas had previously seen him and they talked about life at the Sistine Chapel as he led Nicolas--or as Dominico insisted, Nicoli-- through garden pathways and and past sacred vestibules to a fresh surgeon's room.

Nicolas wished he wasn't terrified. In fact he was furious with himself for being so nervous. I am God's instrument, he repeated to himself and focused on his breathing. The surgeon, upon entering the room, gave the boy one last chance to change his mind. The surgeon made comment about the permanence of such things and mentioned marriage and children. He promised, "the love of a woman is worth all the music in heaven."

But this was more than the child could bear. Nicolas screamed and ripped his own mask off in fury saying, "there are no women for me so music it is!"

And the child's face was so hideous that the surgeon agreed.


	7. Chapter 7 (1848)

Sore, and drowsy from the narcotics, Nicolas opened his eyes to see the blurry face of Charles looking down at him.

Nicolas forced a smile and said, "I knew it was a simple procedure. I survived and now my voice will be beautiful, forever."

Charles shook his head and let out a shaky breath, "mind that you don't get an infection in the wound, then. You're still at great risk." he paced a little in agitation and continued, "don't move about or you could hemorrhage."

"Don't worry Charles," Nicolas closed his eyes, contented—euphoric, even—as he listened to his friend fight off tears of worry. Though he was no longer in charge of the orphan boy, young Charles seemed genuinely afraid for Nicolas' safety. All things felt right for a moment and Nicholas decided that no matter what happened, learning that Charles was concerned for him had been worth all the trouble. "I'll be healthy as ever, soon. Just for you," he muttered before falling back into sleep.

In the enchanted golden light known as Rome, the clergy and their wards could become detached from the world, and no one more was detached that young Nicolas. The orphan entrenched himself on this path towards singular goal and flourished in the steadiness found in focus. Already familiar with the process of healing, he bathed his wounds, listened to the doctor, breathed deeply through the residual pain, and —after the chill of the post-narcotic ache left—he returned to his daily singing practices. This was his great work:carving his body into God's most perfect musical instrument. Therefore he cared not for the matters of men and feeble governments--his history lay in Rome, his future lay in Rome. Here was the vastness of God's power confirmed, with the most beautiful music in all the world in the most beautiful buildings in the world.

But in June of 1844 the famous Bandiera Brothers were executed—shot while screaming "viva l'italia". This trouble was far to the south, but the news spread. And it picked up overtones of martyrdom and revolution as it climbed northward.

Meanwhile, the liturgical calendar pedaled onward. Charles completed his novitiate and pronounced his first vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, promising to become a member of the Society for Jesus —a Jesuit—upon completion. Nicolas and Jeanette attended the ceremony with a proud heart. All was going just as Charles has said it would on their first journey to the holy city. He was on his way to becoming a priest and Nicolas was making inroads in the liturgical music every day with his busy mind. His brain never stopped spinning, thinking of new ways to make himself useful. One day, fate intervened: the director of music died, and no one was there to immediately fill the role. This left the late director's papers (including his extensive research into Palestrina) unattended and available for Nicholas' perusal. He thereby drowned himself in music theory, and Renaissance polyphony, especially in madrigals.

However, the role of music director proved to be difficult to fill: Several contenders came and staked the position out, but notably, no one stayed on. There were stronger whispers of unification for Italy, and visitors as well as citizens could feel the unrest below the surface. The future of Rome was uncertain, even as the hymns were sung in endless cycle.

But in June of 1846 it seemed that everything would change when a reform candidate was elected Pope—Pius IX. There was an uproar in response and bitter rivalries broke out between these profound men of God. Each impassioned adversary insisted they knew how best to prepare for a future of populist revolts and labor movements. Intrigue and secrecy clouded the Vatican. The Austrian prince made a move to disqualify the liberal contestant, and with that, suspicion worsened against the empire. It cost the prince the Papacy, and perhaps all of Rome.

For the revolutionaries, victory had literally been achieved. Every little man of the public wasted no time in exclaiming the joys of the future, in which the pope himself would lend ear to the cries of the populace. His name was taken up as a cheer in the streets of the faithful. Hope was palpable. And while more conservative clergymen grabbed tight to their robes and planted their feet in the Vatican, the liberal rebels were mustering. For the next twenty months young people from Sardinia to Corsica envisioned a papal ally in Pius IX as they sang the names of their own martyrs. True to his promises, he pardoned hundreds of rebels and prisoners of war. Dominico in particular was very encouraged by the whole situation and read aloud passages by a Piedmontese Father who had proudly suggested a confederation of Italian states under leadership of the Pope. But things simply weren't as simple as the dream of a Second Holy Roman Empire. While felicity beckoned on one side of the revolution, the other side studiously prepared for war.

Authority was still officially claimed by the Austrian kingdom—even in the Papal States. This inconvenience amongst supposed allies occasionally produced serious friction, with the ruling order and the royal authority on one side and an agitated population with a sympathetic Pius IX on the other. So while the Pope spoke of peace, those sentiments often failed to reach the practical life on the street. Charles saw this most notably.

"It's fine for a priest safe in Piedmont to announce a new golden age of the Catholic Church," Charles complained to Nicolas, who wasn't listening that hard. He made sure old Dominico was looking his direction when he continued, "I'd like to see Father Gioberti try those words here, amidst Risorgimento. The very children would pull him apart."

"Isn't that why he's not here?" drifted in Nicolas lazily. "Vincenzo Gioberti was exiled several years ago."

"Yes!" Dominico chuckled into his jowl and agreed, "by the ruling order. The Jesuits."

Charles stifled a groan and rolled his eyes politely. The Jesuit order had been struggling under prejudice since its inception during the counter-reformation. Firstly, the Protestants saw them as some kind of elite force of scholars and priests sent out to assure Papal supremacy . The truth turned out to be even more damaging: the Society of Jesus had been notoriously unhelpful in their mission efforts, especially in the Americas. After speaking out about the atrocities perpetrated by Spanish colonizers, they were banished by the king of Spain. The other leading kingdoms all followed suit back then, culminating in papal suppression by Pope Clement XIV. Jesuit teachings and establishments had only been restored in Rome a mere 30 years previous. And while those tensions and prejudices had never seriously affected anyone he knew of personally, Charles noticed a distinct change in attitude—even among supposed peers like Dominico— as the suspicion rose.

A voice seemed to say, "Whose side is the church on, really?"

It was cold in Lombardia when the first strikes against the Austrian government were made. January 1848 brought tales of popular strikes and by February there was rioting in Tuscany. Not long after the Tuscan riots produced its demanded constitution, Pope Pius came through with his promises for one for the Papal States. Once it was official, pontifical authorities wasted no time in decorating the papal banners with pennons of the Italian tricolor, hoping to quell any rioting before it happened.

On March 21st the news of the revolution at Vienna arrived, and the excitement of the Roman populace knew no bounds. Finally, the revolution had come to the Austrian prince; authority could change hands. Every bell in the city rang hard with joy. The townspeople poured into the streets and squares-- some firing muskets in the air, some to strewing flowers; some hoisted flags on the towers, some decked their balconies with the tricolor. It seemed everybody was shouting 'Italia!' in one breath and cursing the empire in the next.

Anyone not thrilled with the news stayed quiet and to be sure, revolution wasn't for everyone just yet. As the encouraged populace tore down sigils of Catholic Austrian governance, Church leadership shifted uneasily. Pope Pius quietly went to the Roman College, which was commanded by the Jesuits. Upon meeting with the leaders of the school, the Pope pleaded with them to flee to Sardinia for their own safety. They took his advice and Charles and his schoolmates were left leaderless.

Without much notice, the school transformed into a Roman seminary under the Jacobians, a less controversial sect. The novices--not yet confirmed as Jesuit brothers or scholastics-- found themselves in a state of limbo. They clung to the Jacobian priests and one another for direction and did all they could to keep the school in running order.

None of this mattered much to Nicolas. He certainly noticed when Charles' school abruptly lost its staff, but once Charles assured him that he and his fellow students would be staying at home, Nicolas stopped putting thought to it. He had far more important things on his mind: at long last, It was Nicolas' turn to solo in the choir. He had been singing with the boys at the basilica for over two and a half years and he was by far the best in class. Every morning Nicolas rose, bathed his sinuses and dutifully followed the exercises of the great Cafferelli. Trusting his own judgement, he devised a special mask, the best one yet, to sing this solo in. Between the dim light of the basilica to the curly mop of dark hair gracing his temple, no one in the audience could immediately make out the mask. Finally he had achieved his goal: he was a perpetual soprano and singing up front like a regular choir boy, discrete mask rendering him invisible among the other singers.

Nicolas noticed the congregation stir when they heard his voice: Sleepy men would pipe up suddenly, the old ladies wept and the village girls peered closely in the candle-lit chapel to try and make out the face of the voice. One Sunday in Advent, he managed to catch the eye of the girl who finally spotted him. A strange horror sank in his heart as her eyes lit up. Nicolas watched the reaction ripple through a whole line of soft and rounded teenage girls. Blushing giggles from fawning admirers were generally frowned upon before the eyes of God. But Nicolas knew exactly how far the authoritative eyes of the liturgical masters scanned, and could guess the coy delicacies or gentle admiration that fell outside of it. He nearly lost his breath when he noticed the attention, and to his incredible chagrin found himself upset for the first time about his castration.

It's just the mask, though, a voice seemed to say. It's silly to be this upset.

It was rather silly after all.

And there was no time to think on it, besides. Nicolas carefully inhaled and refocused on the music.

In the Spring, the king of Sardinia declared war on Austria, with the help of the crown princes of Tuscany and Sicily. For a brief time, the Vatican assisted in this revolutionary endeavor, but after victory in May, the Holy Father announced that he would not endorse a war between two Catholic nations. Revolutionary movements were appearing spontaneously all over Europe, and he was bombarded by demands from the socialists who were getting impatient and occasionally violent. After the first bloodshed from war and continued bullying, the once liberal pope had a much different outlook.

The reception to this news was cold. This is what Charles had feared when all his headmasters fled home and abandoned their charges, all with sureties of safety in their mouths.

By June, the people's faith in Pius IX was beginning to wane. It was a meager San Giovanni festival in Laterano. Charles and Nicolas snacked on stewed snails in the Piazza, as the Pope led the candlelit procession to the church. But hearts were uneasy. Town folk muttered under their breath about promises and expectations. Young people vanished from the Piazza once the pope arrived to begin the ceremony. It was a precarious calm before an unknown storm and Charles--no longer a boy--was already weary. After the unrest at the Roman college, his heart sank to see the foreboding that seemed to follow the Holy Father. "I have an idea, Nico, let's go," he sighed and lead them out of the Piazza. Nicolas looked at his friend, still working a juicy gastropod out of its shell. Nicolas had never seen Charles look this downtrodden before--not even when the Jesuit order fled Rome in disguise. He walked with a hurried frustration in his air, jaw clenched and lips quivering.

"Where are we going, Charles?"

It took Charles a few paces to respond, but he took in a deep breath and said, "I was remembering something I heard while at the soup kitchen the other day." He gave a troubled but genuine smile and said, "it made me think of you. You still play that violin of yours?"

"Noelle," Nicolas corrected with a flourish, "and yes every day."

The quietest of chuckles could be heard in Charles next breath, "yes I remember now. Noelle."

"She's a much less forgiving instrument than anything with a keyboard, however, and practice frustrates me."

"I've heard sounds on these strings that I think might interest you. You see, rumor has it that you've picked up where the dearly departed musical director left off in his love for polyphony. But while he defended Palastrina, you're defending Gesualdo."

"Ah that is where you have it wrong, my friend," Nicolas laughed, "I defend his music, never the man."

Charles shook his head, "Carlo Gesualdo was in consort with Satan, Nicolas. I know his music is liturgical, but it's the music of something cursed."

"How can you know that? No one has heard his music in this century!"

"They can NOT play the music of a man who's ghost still haunts the Villa that he slaughtered two people in," Charles tittered, smiling despite himself. Nicolas was forever finding thorns to twist in the sides of his elders, and Charles never quite understood why. He was disruptive to every sense: his eerie voice, masked appearance, intimidating intelligence and overwhelming eagerness made quite the effect on the other residents and scholars.

"That only makes him all the more tragic, brother Charles!" he waved about dramatically as he spoke, excited with the drama of it all. "He had a special servant to whip him soundly each day for the rest of his life to repent! Yet he still spends his afterlife haunting the grounds in agony," Nicolas wove about in extra circles around the young man as he walked, mimicking a forlorn ghost until Charles couldn't hold back a smile. "Besides, you've got it wrong."

"Oh, I do?" Charles eyes narrowed as his grin broadened-- Nicolas was doing it again. He was about to speak some kind of abomination or slander.

"Yes indeed!" Nicholas quipped, "Gesualdo isn't trapped where he murdered his wife and her lover. He haunts the castle where he had his infant son put to death!"

Charles was completely incapable of keeping a straight face, "Nico, hush!" he guffawed and instinctively looked around to see if anyone had heard.

Paying no mind, the boy continued, "he was lowered in a cradle from the bedroom window and in the street below there was a choir to sing death madrigals for three whole days and nights until the the young prince died!"

"Nico!" Charles scolded through his chuckle, "that's terrible!"

"I know!" the masked face cackled.

Charles shook his head and said, "well, regardless, I think you're going to love this."

Nicolas hopped ahead dramatically and walked backwards in front of Charles, who was taller than he. "What is it? More snails?"

Charles only response was a broad smile. He must have known they were close, because then Nicolas heard it.

The foreign violin.

The sonorous stroke stopped Nicolas in his tracks. Charles nearly ran into him but Nicolas swerved at the last minute, his head darting, seeking the sound as it tripped across the alleyways from an impromptu festival stage. A brown-skinned man with a huge fluffy hat played violin in the half light of the sunset and a luscious array of lamps. Nicolas turned up to Charles and asked, "how did you find him?"

"They came to the soup kitchen, like I said. I heard something I've never heard before and followed the sound to this group. They said they were going to be here after the festival was over."

"They?"

"Shh, keep watching."

As more performers appeared, Charles was pleased to see the kid perk up and marvel wide eyed and unblinking. The musicians were playing in non-diatonic intervals, sliding in between tones and tuned modaly to one another, as in nature.

Not, it should be noted, as in the Basilica.

Nicolas had been questioning the senior staff members of liturgical studies on the devil's tritone and other so-called sinister methods of writing music for some years now. He had grown up embedded with his studies and in fact outgrown several of his instructors. Nobody wanted to answer his ludicrous questions about chromaticism and it's potential place in liturgical works. Occasionally he'd been rumored to start fights with other chorus members—even other Musici—over quality of pitch or opinions about acoustics. He read dissertations from other schools of music and argued for greater breadth in liturgy. The fact that stringed instruments were banned from mass drove the young musici wild, and in response he devoted his childhood violin to "the notes I cannot sing in church in an instrument that cannot be played in church with a name that cannot sing in church" because this "second voice" of his was given a woman's name—Noelle. Women also were not allowed to sing in church.

However, in other parts of peninsula, the mass was being played to the popular tunes of Donizetti and Rossini. Opera scores were being played openly in worship service to the delight of a good number of parishioners. Meanwhile, not even the great stringed masses of Mozart and Handel would be played in the perfected acoustics of the St Peter's chapel and, frankly, this was an outrage.

In the lantern-lit alley with the exotic sounds of the heathen, Nicolas found whatever it was he believed himself to be looking for. Those hidden gestures and emotions that could only be perceived by utilizing notes in between notes or in the lamentation of an old woman's vocal cords or the sly question mark of a string that hovers on the penultimate tone on its way toward tonic. My god, but wasn't it about time the church finally enter the 19the century?

All the long walk back to the bridge, Charles smiled peacefully as Nicolas made a one-sided conversation about music theory. Once Charles was out of sight, the one sided conversation continued—for even though he was no longer the tiny French orphan who had first arrived several years ago, Nicolas still spent most of his time talking to Jeanette.

The instant Nolle was back in his hands, he extolled to her the nature of the sounds he had heard that evening. Picking up the bow, he tried to mimic the tones and tempo that were still so fresh and real. Nico and Noelle practiced in his dormitory shelter, daring anyone to stop them.

No one did. And as the months carried Nicolas and his precious intervals into a most discomfiting summertime, a voice seemed to say, " _will you still be fiddling when Rome finally burns?_ "


End file.
